by Fred Vargas
‘Good morning, doctor,’ said Adamsberg, throwing his jacket over the back of the chair.
‘As you see, your Billaud-Varenne has already brought me some coffee. You called me “doctor”?’
‘I’m guessing, rightly or wrongly. Psychiatrist perhaps. Who’s Billaud-Varenne?’
‘The young man with the wide-open eyes – you wonder whether he closes them at night. I told you before he’d make a very good Billaud. Oh, damn it all, we ought to have put a stop to the whole business when we suspected something untoward was happening! Once people started to get worked up. Yes, that’s what we should have done. But it was so fascinating to watch the unleashing of these passions. You’re right, I’m a psychiatrist.’
‘You had a Robespierre who was too perfect. He provided a disturbing replica of your “living history”.’
‘To the point where the line between reality and illusion disappeared,’ said Lebrun gravely. ‘And when that happens, commissaire, the consequences can be extremely dangerous. That’s where we are now. It means the end of our experiment, of course, but it has already cost four lives.’
‘Are you certain that’s the man from Danton’s family waiting in front of your house?’
‘Absolutely. I ought to have gone out and confronted him, talked to him, but I didn’t have the guts. Courage isn’t my strong point. I’m a man used to sitting quietly in my consulting rooms.’
‘This time, doctor, I need his name and address,’ said Adamsberg.
The other man thought a moment and nodded.
‘My colleagues have authorised me to tell you that,’ he said. ‘But not for the other two, as long as they haven’t done anything to cause concern.’
‘What do you think he wanted? He certainly wouldn’t have tried to gun you down in the street, it’s not his style.’
‘After thinking I was in personal danger, I wondered whether perhaps, through me, he was hoping to get to Robespierre. Only the treasurer and I know his home address.’
‘And strike at the head of the association? It’s too soon, I don’t believe in that.’
‘Perhaps not to strike yet, but to stake out the place. I think, like you, that Robespierre might be his ultimate target. But before that, he wants to create a climate of increasing terror. He wants Robespierre to feel afraid, in the way that he made others feel afraid. I suppose he imagines, in his delusion, that he is dealing with the real Robespierre.’
‘Yes, I’d go along with that,’ said Adamsberg, lighting a cigarette that had lost half its tobacco in his pocket, and which therefore flared up.
‘He’s living on the invisible border between illusion and reality, as I said.’
‘If you think Robespierre is his target, why do you want protection for yourself?’
‘Because I don’t feel sure of anything, commissaire. Just limited protection. But perhaps that is asking too much. After all, I haven’t been explicitly threatened.’
‘Limited to what?’
‘To my journeys between the hospital and my home.’
‘And your home is where?’ smiled Adamsberg.
‘From today, I’m going to go and stay with a friend,’ said the doctor, smiling back. ‘No, commissaire, I’m not going to tell you my real name. Not because it’s sacred or untouchable, but just imagine the reaction of my patients if they ever found out. Opening up their psyche to someone who goes around “cutting off heads”! No, I’d have to go without protection, if my name was to appear. Not that I don’t trust you, but we all know that secrets left with police will sometimes out.’
‘All right,’ said Adamsberg with a sigh, ‘where do you work?’
‘If you can agree to my request, have someone wait for me every evening at six in front of the main gates of the hospital at Garches, I’ll be wearing the black beard you’ve already seen.’
‘We could easily find out your name by checking at the hospital.’
‘I’m only on temporary detachment there. And if you were to show them my photo, you might be directed to a Dr Rousselet. Which isn’t my real name either.’
Adamsberg stood up to walk around and to check how the leaves were coming on, on the tree outside the window. Limes are always late. This Lebrun/Rousselet was a coward, but a well-organised one.
‘Danton,’ he said, ‘the real Danton, according to what my commandant said, also had blood on his hands, didn’t he?’
‘Of course. He was in post during the Terror, before it destroyed him too. He was all in favour of setting up the Revolutionary Tribunal. “Let us be terrible, to prevent the people from being so . . .” – you may have heard this quotation?’
‘Nope.’
‘“. . . and organise a tribunal, so that the people shall know that the sword of justice hangs over the head of all its enemies.” And in this new tribunal, verdicts were rushed out in twenty-four hours and followed by the guillotine. So that’s what good old Danton contributed to.’
‘One week of police protection, renewable,’ Adamsberg agreed. ‘I’ll leave you with Commandants Mordent and Danglard to work out the technical details.’
‘Your colleagues will need to know what this Danton descendant looks like. Here,’ said the doctor, cautiously putting a photograph on the desk.
‘I didn’t think you had any photos of your members.’
‘I got permission for this one. Judge for yourself.’
Adamsberg examined the portrait of the descendant. It was one of the darkest and ugliest faces he had ever seen.
XXVII
HE DROVE FAST with his blue lights flashing, to make up for the time he had spent with Dr Lebrun/Rousselet. The man had tried his hardest to keep calm, but he was eaten up with anxiety. His diction was less smooth than on his first visit, he kept clenching and unclenching his hands, holding his thumbs. Adamsberg had the feeling that there was some make-up involved, even today. Lebrun was still somehow behind a mask, off-centre, on his guard. Ready to recoil at the slightest alert, like those men in the bullring, who goad the bull and then jump back behind the wooden barriers.
‘Danglard?’ he called, as he drove one-handed, ‘Can you speak up? I’m in the car.’
‘Good grief, I thought you’d come back.’
‘But boats always venture beyond the lighthouse.’
‘Still chasing baby Amédée? When I gather the secretary of the association has been threatened and wants protection?’
‘Not threatened, watched.’
‘Did you see the ugly mug of that Danton descendant?’
‘Yes, sinister. Tell me, Danglard, what is the name of those wooden barriers, the ones the guys hide behind when they’ve been annoying the bull?’
‘What?’
‘You know, in bullfights.’
‘Burladeros. And the “guys” are called the peones attached to the torero. Is this important?’ asked Danglard, and there was a caustic edge to his voice.
‘Not really. It’s just that our doctor – because Lebrun really is a psychiatrist – is someone like that. He’s afraid of being gored, so he ducks. Whereas François Château, who we presume is more directly threatened, hasn’t asked for any protection.’
‘After four murders, and with Danton skulking across his street, I can easily put myself in his place.’
‘Perhaps we should tell him to cover himself with the droppings of hooded crows.’
‘I imagine that will really please him.’
‘I think our Lebrun is an active member of this Robespierre association because it means he can watch people being violent and aggressive in ways he’s not capable of in real life. He gets his kicks by proxy.’
‘So what?’
‘Danglard, I’ll be back by four. There’s no need to get stroppy.’
‘So what? It’s now that we’re going to question this Danton descendant. And you’re waltzing off for a chat with Amédée’s family.’
‘Look, you’ll be much better than me at questioning some guy who’s got into ancient history s
o deep his mind has suffered. To talk to Danton, we need someone scholarly and tactful. But don’t do the interview on your own, it goes without saying.’
Adamsberg drove into the modest village of Santeuil and parked near a bar-tabac, whose owner agreed to make him a sandwich, although they didn’t normally do them.
‘All we got is Gruyère,’ the man said gruffly.
‘Perfect. I’m looking for a farm called Le Thost,’ said Adamsberg, pronouncing the s and the t.
‘I can see you’re not from round here. It’s pronounced “Le Toh”, you don’t say the s or the t. And what might you be doing there?’
‘It’s to help a child who lived there a long time ago.’
The man wrinkled his nose. All right, if there was a child involved it was different.
‘It’s about seven hundred metres up the way, the Réclainville road. You cross the route du Vieux-Marché and you’re there. But you won’t find nothing there no more. Kid’s looking for his foster-parents? Too bad. Because they got burnt to cinders, fifteen years ago. The whole building went up in flames, and the couple were killed. Horrible, eh? Seems it was youngsters making a campfire at night near the barn. With all that straw, you can imagine. Went up in an hour. Seemingly they’d taken sleeping pills, the people at the farm, they didn’t wake up. A nasty do.’
‘Yes, very nasty.’
‘Mind, nobody much liked them round here. Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead’ – the usual opening before people do precisely that – ‘but they were proper skinflints. Nothing in their hearts, and everything in the woollen sock under the bed. If they took in orphan children, it was for the money. Dunno how anyone could hand kids over to a pair like that. Cos the littl’uns had to work their socks off, tell you that.’
‘Was one of these kids called Amédée?’
‘Couldn’t tell you, never been up there myself. But you want to know, you should ask Ma Mangematin. Yes, that’s her real name, you don’t choose your name, do you, but she’s a good soul. After you go past where the farm was – you can’t miss it, it’s still in ruins – you go about thirty metres and there’s a green gate in a wall on the left.’
‘She knew them well?’
‘She went over every month to help with the laundry. And took some treats for the kids. She’s a good soul, like I said.’
Adamsberg rang the bell outside the green gate a little before four, after brushing the crumbs from his sandwich off his jacket. A large dog hurled itself against the gate, showing its teeth. Adamsberg put his hand on its head, through the bars. After a few growls and whines, the dog settled down.
‘Got a way with animals, haven’t you?’ said a heavily-built woman, who limped out towards him. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m enquiring about a little boy who lived at Le Thost, a long time ago.’
‘At the Greniers’ place?’
‘Yes. Name of Amédée.’
‘No harm’s come to him, has it?’ the woman asked, as she opened the gate.
‘No, no. But he doesn’t remember much about his time there, he needs some help.’
‘Well, I’ve got memory to spare,’ said the woman, showing him into her small dining room. ‘Can I get you anything? Coffee? Cider?’
Adamsberg opted for coffee, and the woman, whose name was Roberta Mangematin, as he had seen from the letter box at the gate, sponged down the oilcloth cover on the table which was already immaculate.
‘You don’t mind if I have a glass of cider myself?’ she said, now wiping the table with a dry cloth. ‘You’ve come far?’
‘From Paris.’
‘Member of the family?’
‘No, police.’
‘Ah,’ said the woman, placing the cloth on a radiator.
‘It’s because Amédée’s got himself mixed up in something – no, he hasn’t done anything wrong himself, don’t worry – and he needs to know more about his childhood at Le Thost.’
‘You don’t pronounce the s or the t. Some childhood that was, officer.’
‘Commissaire,’ said Adamsberg, showing her his card.
‘And a commissaire’s come all the way out here for that?’
‘Well, nobody else is interested in Amédée. But I am. So I’ve come.’
Roberta poured out some coffee respectfully, then served herself a good glassful of cider.
‘So how’s he now, the kid?’
‘He’s got film-star looks.’
‘There wasn’t a prettier little boy in the whole region. Cute enough to eat, he was. And nice with it. You’d of thought that would touch the heart of the old Grenier woman? But no, she thought he was namby-pamby. So she worked him to death. At four years old! To make a man of him, she said. Make a slave of him, more like. Broke my heart, to see that kid with his sad little face. And you say he can’t remember anything about it?’
‘Just a few bits and pieces. Something about duck’s heads?’
‘Oh, now then,’ said Roberta, putting down her glass with emphasis. ‘What a cow, eh? Mustn’t speak ill of the dead, but there ain’t no other word for it. She got it into her head that one of his chores was he had to kill the poultry when they was wanted. Four years old, ever hear the like? And little Amédée, of course he was too squeamish, he didn’t want to do it. She showed him what to do, she grabbed hold of a chicken and crack, she cut its head off with a hatchet. Just like that, in front of him! After that it was crisis after crisis. If he refused to do it, he’d be punished by going without food the rest of the day. And one day, the child had had enough. He was what? Five? Not long before he went away. He got hold of the hatchet, and he went on the rampage. He cut the heads off the ducks, seven, ten of them, all in one go! The doctor told me he was taking revenge for the way he was treated, something like that. The way he was going, doctor said, he’d have cut Ma Grenier’s head off too. Not that I believed that.’
Roberta shook her head energetically, chin in the air.
‘So what do you believe?’ asked Adamsberg.
The coffee here was ten times better than in the office, he’d have to have a word with Estalère.
‘That he just wanted to show her he could do it,’ Roberta replied, ‘so they’d stop punishing him and calling him a girlie. He went mad that day, that’s for sure. So sad, such a nice little kid. She twisted him, that’s what she did.’
‘And the husband?’
‘No better. Didn’t say much. But he did whatever she told him, he never defended the kid. Alcoholic good-for-nothing, he was,’ she said, filling her glass again, ‘though he did heavy work round the farm, I’ll say that for him. Doesn’t surprise me if Amédée remembers the ducks. Cos you know what she did afterwards?’
‘Gave him a good hiding?’
‘Yes, of course, but after that?’
‘How would I know?’
‘Well, all the ducks he’d killed, she made him pluck them and clean them out, and then he had to eat them every meal, breakfast, dinner, supper. Course he threw up all over the place. Thanks be to God, the big boy helped him out. He’d eat up the stuff for him, or hide it and bury it, and give him something else to eat. Otherwise, I don’t know what would have become of him.’
‘What big boy do you mean?’
‘He’d be about ten when Amédée came as a baby. That boy was as ugly as sin, as ugly as Amédée was pretty, but a heart of gold. Protected that kid like a mother hen. Those two lads were really fond of each other, you can say that.’
‘So who was this big boy?’ Adamsberg asked, suddenly alert.
‘She’d taken him in a few years before that, he was another one who’d been abandoned. The mother, she just sent the allowance, that’s all. But Amédée, maybe he hadn’t really been abandoned after all, because one fine day his parents came to collect him. The woman, she acted like she was a duchess. Never came to see him once, all that time, but she paid up all right, or so Grenier used to say. Masfauré was the name.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Through the postman, everyone knew. Should have seen it when they turned up! I was doing the laundry. And Amédée, he was clinging on to Victor, the big boy, hard as he could, didn’t want to let go. Victor was murmuring to him, with the kid hanging round his neck like a monkey, couldn’t make him get off. In the end, old man Grenier, he pulled them apart, and they put Amédée into this big car, he was screaming his head off, mind. Three-quarters of an hour, whole thing was over.’
‘Did this boy Victor have fair hair?’
‘That’s right, curly blond hair, like an angel. That was the only thing about him that was pretty. And his smile. But I didn’t see him that often.’
‘Madame Mangematin, you talked about an allowance.’
‘You don’t think people like those Greniers would have taken them in out of the kindness of their hearts, do you?’
‘No, of course not. Do you know whether there was one a month, or two separate ones?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t tell you that. The postman used to talk about the Masfauré money, no other name. I can ask him if you like. But he’s getting on a bit, he might not remember.’
The woman went into the next room to phone. The fierce dog had crept in and now lay down between Adamsberg’s legs. The commissaire scratched the creature’s neck without thinking, his mind on the two little boys in Le Thost. Or ‘Le Toh’ as the locals called it.
‘You’re gifted with animals, monsieur,’ said the woman, returning. ‘That dog, he killed a duck on me, one day. But of course that’s different. It’s natural for a dog to kill.’
‘Yes,’ Adamsberg said, wondering whether killing had entered Amédée’s make-up, when the Grenier woman had ‘twisted’ him.
‘Just one envelope every month,’ Roberta said, picking up her glass of cider once more, ‘he’d swear to that. Except before Amédée it was a different name, not Masfauré. She must have got married in between.’
‘But how did he know it was the allowance?’
‘Well, he told me that at the time, we had a laugh. A postman can spot when there’s banknotes in an envelope, just by the feel. So it came in cash, she didn’t want to leave any traces behind, seemingly.’